Charley Brindley - Sea Of Sorrows

The second guy pulled something from his waistband, in the back. “That’s enough of this bullshit,” he said.

The chrome-plated automatic caught the light.

“A gun!” someone said.

“Get back!” another shouted.

The circle of spectators drew away, still mesmerized by the drama taking a deadly turn.

Okay, a knife and a gun. I’ve got to take out the gun first .

I made a move on the knife-guy. When he stepped sideways, waving the knife at me, I went the opposite way, surprising the man with the gun. He tried to bring the weapon around to get a shot at me, but I already had a grip on his hand. I bent his wrist backward, and the gun went off, firing toward the sky. I then used both hands, pushing hard and twisting the gun sideways.

His finger caught in the trigger guard.

I heard the bones crack, and he cried out as I wrenched the gun from him. He shrank back, holding his broken finger.

I pointed the gun at the knife-guy. He stood, open-mouthed, glancing around for a way out.

I ejected the magazine, then worked the slide, flipping a cartridge from the firing chamber.

The knife-guy stared at the empty gun. I tossed it away and went for him, then he came at me, the knife pointed at my throat.

Before I could make a move for his hand, his other two pals grabbed me from behind, one on each arm. I used them for support and kicked hard, hitting the knife-guy in the side of his chin, breaking his jaw. He cried out, dropping the knife.

I fell forward, taking the two men down with me. They threw their hands out to break their fall.

On my knees, I grabbed one by the hair, smashing his face into the cement. The other one rolled away, but I jumped on him, landing my knee in his stomach, knocking the wind from his lungs. As he struggled to breathe, I slugged him twice in the face. He went out, unconscious.

I glanced at the other one on the cement. He sat, wiping blood from his broken nose. He was finished.

The knife-guy was done for, with a broken jaw. I looked around for the gun-guy and saw him standing on the edge of the crowd, crying over his broken finger.

The gunshot had caused someone to call the cops. At the first sound of the wailing siren, the onlookers melted away into the crowded street. The four thugs, probably not wanting to explain how they got injured, helped each other clear out. Meanwhile, someone from the crowd ran in to snatch the knife and gun.

I grabbed the girl’s hand, leading her away. A block down the street, I turned her back toward the approaching police cars.

“Just walk slow and casual,” I whispered.

She nodded, but I felt her hand trembling in mine.

The people in the street were slow to clear a path for the policemen. When the cops reached the place where the fight had taken place, they found only a small smear of blood from the guy’s broken nose. Even the gun’s magazine and the cartridge I’d ejected were gone, as was the empty shell casing from the bullet that was fired.

The four policemen asked questions, but the bystanders just shook their heads and said they hadn’t heard or seen anything.

We walked past the policemen, pretending to be curious onlookers. At a sidewalk café, I pulled out a chair for her. She slumped into it, shaking from the ordeal.

I touched her arm, below the purple bruise. “Is it okay?”

She nodded. “Thank you. That mans would have kill you.” She rubbed her arm.

I smiled. “They don’t know street fighting.”

A waitress came to our table.

“ Cha yen ?” I asked the girl.

She nodded.

I ordered two of the sweet iced teas with milk. The waitress hurried away.

“Are you hungry?”

“No. How are you called?”

“Saxon. And you?”

“I am Siskit.”

“You’re not working the street?”

“No. I wait for sister.”

The waitress brought our drinks. We sipped.

“This is very good,” I said.

“I like the sugar and milk.”

I nodded.

“My sister works the street.”

“You come every night to wait for her?”

“Yes, but late only Saturday night. We have Sunday off, so we sleep late morning.”

“You live together?”

She drank her tea. “We share apartment in Song Wat road.”

“On the river?”

“Yes. It is nice view of water, and boat, too.”

After Siskit calmed down from her ordeal, she carried on a very good conversation.

“I work in export office, Monday to Saturday,” she said.

“Where did you learn English?”

“In my school we had choice of French or English. Prija and I still hate the French, as our parents always did.”

“Prija?”

“My sister.”

We talked about Bangkok, Thailand in the old days when it was called Siam, and the shipping business she was involved in.

The crowds thinned out after 4 a.m.

“I must go now, so—” I was interrupted.

“What are you doing with him?”

She came from behind, startling me. I spilled the last of my drink in my lap.

“He was—”

She grabbed Siskit’s arm, turning it for a look at the purple bruise. “He did this to you?” She spoke in Thai, almost shouting.

“Prija, he—”

“You stupid fucking American old geezer!” she shouted in English. “You think you just can come to our home country, hurt our girls, then buy them coffee and shit to make better?”

Thinking she was about to come at me, I stood and backed away.

Siskit caught her wrist, holding her back. “Stop it, Prija. He didn’t do it.” They both spoke in Thai.

“Who, then?” She glared at me. “If not this American old bastard.”

Siskit told her about the men who’d tried to drag her away. Prija narrowed her eyes on me as her sister told the story. Her face softened a little, but not much. Her eyes, like glowing dark embers, started to cool.

Prija was a very pretty brunette with a shapely petit figure accentuated by her tight tan skirt. Without the scowl, her face was more pubescent than the countenance of a young woman.

Siskit stood and reached for my hand. “I thank you for that you did. Them mens would want to hurt me so much.”

“Yeah.” Prija flipped her hair back over her shoulder. “Thanks. Sit now.” She took the other chair next to Siskit.

“It was only four men.” I spoke in their language, smiling at Siskit. “Not six. And just one gun.” I sat and watched Prija’s face.

It took her a moment to respond. “You call that Thai?”

“You speak our language so well,” Siskit said. “Where did you learn?”

“Here.” I nodded toward the street, where the daytime vendors were beginning to filter in. “In Ladprao.”

“Do you live here?”

“No. I’m just a visiting American old bastard.”

“You came to find nice young girl,” Prija said, “to have fucking fun time you can’t get in your own fucking country.” Her eyes flared, ready to burn if I got too close.

I stood and shoved my chair back, then took money from my pocket, peeled off some 100-baht bills, and dropped them on the table.

“ Ratri swasdi , Siskit (Goodnight, Siskit).”

“That’s too much for two teas,” Prija said in Thai. “You have change coming.”

“Keep it.” I stared at her for a moment, then turned to leave. “You need it more than I do.”

I smiled as I walked away.

That’s what I’m talking about .

Most of the girls take Sunday off, so I didn’t bother going to Ladprao.

In the early afternoon, I took a tuc-tuc to Rattanakosin , the Old City. It lies in the center of Bangkok, on the banks of the Chao Phraya River. The area is filled with beautiful old buildings from Thailand’s rich past, when the country was called Siam.